


of kings without crowns and kingdoms made of fire

by starrytobios



Series: royal illusions [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Kageyama Tobio in Love, Kageyama Tobio is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Miya Atsumu in Love, One Night Stands, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Sexual Tension, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27741385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrytobios/pseuds/starrytobios
Summary: “I’ll see you soon, Tobio.” Atsumu says it like he can confirm that it will happen, as if that is his choice to make.And when he looks like that, glowing, otherworldly, outlined with the golden hues of victory, Tobio cannot do anything but believe him. So he chooses to follow the sound of his voice, all the way to the next stage of his career.Kageyama Tobio wants love. Miya Atsumu has plenty to give. All it takes for him to share, is time and some trust.Or: Love and Trust, Atsumu and Tobio through time.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Hoshiumi Kourai, Kageyama Tobio/Miya Atsumu, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: royal illusions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027287
Comments: 29
Kudos: 154





	1. the new king of the court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The U19 training camp weighs heavy on Tobio's mind, all because of one boy who never knows when to shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brainrot is deadly

The boys at the training camp were different – dignified individuals. Like they held something between their fingers that other players – commoners compared to them – would never be able to wield.

Inherent talent. An insatiable drive. Youthful blood of soon-to-be volleyball royalty.

Not everyone has that; not everyone is born with those high titles. Not everyone can forge themselves a crown.

Yet Tobio finds himself staring at the people clustered in the corner of Karasuno’s gym, at his teammates, recognising flickers of regality in all that they do. Traces and burn marks of their undeniable skills, their necessitude to the team as a whole – to _him_.

Because it’s taking time, but he’s starting to feel like his hitters mean a great deal more to him than he thought they did – even Tsukishima.

The boys at the training camp were different.

But just _how_ different?

They were knights, and their armour was their skill. Defensive chainmail meshed together, created link by link by Komori’s receives, countered by Noya. Their hands were weapons of their own, swords slashing through the air as they spiked, offensive cannons like Sakusa and Hoshiumi. Tobio finds that Asahi and Tanaka can muster power like that too. They can spike. That’s all he needs for them to do: spike.

Spike and he will meet your every demand. Spike because he will set precisely how you want. Spike, spike, spike because he will bump and set and _serve_ until his body falls apart; still all too fearful of the heavy crown and velvet robes, crammed away in a box with a lock that cannot contain a raging, mourning king. A monster who anticipates bursting from its confinement.

That’s all he wants, all he needs. For them to spike and to spike _good_ , because Kageyama Tobio set the ball exactly how they desired, without objection.

_“Yer a real goody-two-shoes, ain’tcha?”_

Fuck.

Tobio shivers so hard he nearly fumbles the water bottle from his hand. It catches the attention of not only his team but Dateko too, who shoot him a few puzzled looks from the other side of the gym.

Whatever, he’s got bigger metaphorical fish to gut. Not _fry_. Gut. Gut and forget about forever, hopefully.

He’s sure the scowl on his face could kill; a part of him wishes it would. He craves for an execution, for Miya Atsumu’s remarkably aggravating voice to be ripped from the clefts of Tobio’s mind, and that haunting, insufferable smirk, sliced out from his frontal lobe with the sharpest axe in the land.

_Who does that?_ Who calls someone they _just_ met a goody-two-shoes? Miya fuckin’ Atsumu apparently.

“You okay, Kageyama?” Suga’s arm is on his shoulder, lips pulled tight with concern. From the corner of his eye, Tobio can detect a similar apprehension sizzling in the momentary stare that Coach Ukai sent his way.

He feels like there’s a target on him. Feels like someone will stab him down when his back is turned, ivory steps of the senate dripping with crimson blood, saturated with his sins. A river carved from a fallen monarch, his crown of wreaths painted carmine. Is that how they will see him if he speaks? Like Caesar; emperor supreme. A tyrant king, clutching at silages of power if he dares to object. Will his team, his _friends_ , turn on him?

He tenses up; the snapshots of five backs turning away and the echoing thud of a set left unspiked resonates throughout his entire body, forcing the hairs on his arm on end, little goosebumps decorating his skin. It would not be the first time that Caesar bled at the hands of his friends.

“I’m fine.” A masterful lie.

Sugawara tilts his head in a way that tells Tobio that he doesn't believe him. Was his poker face not convincing enough?

“You look...caught up.” He moved his hands in a jumbled way, their path almost as confused as the furrow of his brows.

Tobio’s mouth goes dry, tongue heavy and no longer fitting the cavity of his mouth. No words can remedy this, and even if they could, he is no alchemist of communication; he cannot concoct an antidote made of sweet syllables and candied accord.

“I’m fine.” He insists, pointedly looking away, “I just didn’t sleep very well. That’s all.”

That’s not a lie.

The previous night was shit, and Tobio’s brain still aches from the scarcity of sleep, eyes bloodshot with dark circles lining their territory on his face. He knows looking after yourself is crucial, knows the value of overseeing every detail of your body, from the edges of your nails to the amount of rest you get.

His body is a castle, built up from the ground, from his birth. Slabs of marble with mismatching patterns, torn from others in his life, gifted by some to form his arms, smashed by former teammates, leaving cracks over his chest. They sculpt him up, bit by bit; break him down much faster. Granite pillars carve his legs, strengthened by his strict regime, his way of life: a run every morning and every evening, healthy foods, meticulously filed nails and making sure to cool down after workouts.

It's all essential, all carved into him as auric accents, curled calligraphy spelling out advice on his skin. Words of wisdom from Kazuyo, "Let me teach you something just as important as practice: _personal maintenance_."

Sleeping well is personal maintenance, and he would never willingly neglect advice taught to him so lovingly, but it's arduous to stick to anything when thoughts of Miya Atsumu stealthily steal away his desire to slumber. Even things ingrained into him since birth tremble under the pressure of his words. One 'goody-two-shoes' and the foundation of his castle cracks, not nearly as steady as he'd thought it was. One 'anyone who can't hit my sets just sucks' and the king bound by chains is reaching for him, pulling him by his feet, dragging him back to his imperious nature.

Tobio struggles to shake him off, to keep him at bay when all he really wants to do is keep playing. He just wants to play for fuck's sake. He will cut that sharp tongue from his mouth and not say a word, _all to keep playing_. That’s what he promised he would do, but Atsumu has unearthed the king from his grave. He has taunted a slumbering monarch, and now his team will face the wrath, no matter how hard he tries to keep him locked away.

The break has ended, and the practice match continues without any major problems, but Tobio’s skin feels tight, hardening with every movement. He doesn’t let it affect his plays, god no, that would be the nail in his metaphorical coffin. But the pressure is building up, the locks are loosening, the pharaoh is aching to leave his tomb. A hundred eyes are focused on him; he can feel it.

Nishinoya is in the way of the spikers attacks. He digs his nails into his skin. Tsukishima won’t jump high enough. He is pulled back from arguing back. Asahi doesn’t make the point. The set ends, and the floodgates burst open.

“Damn it, sorry!” Asahi places his hands over his face, “That was a really good set.”

Tobio feels something snap, more than a mere string; he hears the clang of shackles crashing into the wooden floor of the court.

_“Then make the damn point.”_ His voice is strained, rougher than it has been for a while and it catches the team off guard. But Tobio’s vision is clouded, he can’t see anything but crumbling palaces and steps coated in blood, “I _know_ my tosses are good.”

Heavy breaths and shaking steps, trembling hands and aching head. He feels like he is burning alive; he hates it, hates it, _hates_ it.

_“So try to score more often.”_ One more yell and his throat feels like it may split, voice box raw, feet numb and shoulders rounded in a defensive position. The gym is quiet save for his laboured breathing and the rapid thumping of his heart, strong enough to burst from the confines of his ribs.

Fuck.

“Looks like it’s the return of the king.” Tsukishima comments, scoffing lightly before drinking from his water bottle.

_Fuck._

Tobio’s lips can’t form the right shapes for words to spill though, singed and lacerated in a million different places. Unfit to speak, unfit for this team. He steps back, trying to do something to fix this, anything, before backs turn again and yet another monarchy is slashed to its knees. Rome cannot fall this time. Caesar cannot bleed out. He doesn’t want to fall; he doesn’t want to bleed. _He doesn’t want to be alone._

He bows his head, trying to will away the blurriness in his vision.

“I’m...I’m sorry--”

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about it,” Hinata’s voice breaks the silence as if it was nothing special, not the very thing tightening like a noose around Tobio’s neck, “So what if he’s the king? Is it because he’s too bossy?”

Tobio winces slightly.

“No matter what Kageyama says, if I don’t like it, I just won’t listen.” Hinata announces it with a feral grin on his face, eyes doing that thing where they could consume an entire galaxy with their fervour. He swings the towel from his shoulders, staring up at Tobio as their coaches chuckle to themselves, “So no one really cares if you’re the King. I mean, isn’t the King meant to be cool?”

Tobio doesn’t know what to say. He gets that feeling a lot when he’s with Hinata. Hinata who has the same drive as the boys at camp, the same voracious hunger.

“Yeah Kageyama, I’m still going for the cross shot, ‘kay?” Tanaka slaps his back with his palm, “If you don’t like that’s your problem. Don’t get too pissed about it.”

Tobio frowns, “Can’t make any promises.”

And Tanaka _laughs_. Laughs and doesn’t twist a knife in his back. Laughs and doesn’t leave him alone.

Tobio feels a little lighter.

The second set is better than the first, not game-wise, but for his soul. It no longer feels like he is scorching away, no longer feels like he has to watch his back, no longer feels like his tongue needs to be bitten in between his teeth lest a tyrant uses it to speak on his behalf.

He makes Tsukki fly and that fills him with smouldering smugness, loosens the tightness in his chest and the hunching of his shoulders. The team is shocked and Tsukki isn’t all that pleased, but it worked, it worked, it fucking worked.

Then Hinata is being his dumbass-self and imitating him.

_What a little prick,_ Tobio can’t help but huff out a laugh.

“ _The setter’s the most dominant role._ ” Unruly ginger locks are flattened into bangs, “ _It’s the coolest!_ We’re not letting you forget that you said that. ‘Cause no matter how hard you try to just listen to everyone, you’re still a king deep down, Kageyama-kun.”

There’s not a moment left for Tobio to process the words being said because Shouyou is yelling, charging at him with a crown made from the very towel he was just using, “From now on, you’ll be known as the new King of the Court.”

Tobio’s not sure of the face he’s pulling when Hinata jumps to place that pseudo-crown on his head. He just knows he won’t let him see the smile that follows, whipping the towel at his face once his feet meet the ground again.

_New King of the Court, eh?_ Tobio feels his heart relax, feels everything that he has been made of shine a little brighter, as a crown of pure gold settles on his ebony locks.

He can’t stop being a goody-two-shoes, just as he can’t stop being a king in some regard. He’ll take both; he will let the tyrant die but never slave after his chasers. He knows he can be wrong, but he also knows when he most definitely is right. Because this is volleyball, this is what runs through his veins. This is at the heart of his castle, his crown jewels, the intricate carvings of his marble heart, softening as he looks at his team.

“I don’t always know how people feel, and apparently I’m no good at saying things the right way,” Tobio admits, “But I’ll do everything I can to become the best setter.”

Dachi laughs. It’s comforting.

“We know, Kageyama. That’s what you’ve been doing this entire time.”

This isn’t Rome, and it isn’t Kitagawa Daiichi. He isn’t Ceaser, and Karasuno isn’t his old team.

There are no steps to walk alone, no senate to bleed at the feet of. No, there is a shared path, a team that trusts him and nationals to win.

There is a boy – who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, when to stop teasing – who has never known loneliness, that Tobio needs to prove wrong.

But first, there are kingdoms to conquer, kingdoms made just as Karasuno is, with defense and offense and teamwork.

He decides that, yes, the boys at camp were different, but they have nothing, no royalty, no title, no talent that _his_ team does not share amongst their ranks.

They too, are royalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo, I love Kageyama Tobio.
> 
> not much atskg here but this isn't /just/ about them getting together, ig? i really want to focus on how they grew up and shaped themselves and each other as well as their relationship.
> 
> tbh I've not been the same person since threat/trust and love happened so thanks furudate for this incurable brainrot.
> 
> thank you for reading!!
> 
> twt: kaikxge :)


	2. the greatest contender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nationals, Miya Atsumu and a stolen quick set. Strangely, Tobio feels understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m back. in less than 24hrs. this is out of character for me.

Nationals.

Tobio breathes in the air of a real stadium, a battleground for volleyball dynasties from all over Japan to wage war, leaving the final prize, the crown jewels, for the one team that is victorious.

He intends for Karasuno to be that team.

Faces that are both familiar and unfamiliar fill the stadium halls, and for the first time Tobio knows people without being introduced through the rest of the team.

There’s the boys from training camp; Komori is sociable enough to strike up polite chit chat as Sakusa hides away from the bustling crowd, clearly not one for social interaction. That’s okay, Tobio understands to some degree. And Fukurodani is here too, one of the three Tokyo representatives. Bokuto is talking as enthusiastically as ever to Hinata as Akaashi watches on, offering Tobio the slightest smile. There’s Nekoma too. Tobio is actually surprised at the amount of people he seems to know, not that it makes that big of a difference when compared to the _many_ more people he does not know.

But it doesn’t affect him, because nerves are something he does not understand.

Volleyball is what he has been raised on, and the story of little baby Tobio’s grip on Miwa’s volleyball has been told over the dining table about a million times. Or, it used to be told. No one really has dinner together in his household anymore. He finds himself zoning out, staring at the stadium lights as his mind trails from what he was supposed to be thinking about.

What was it again, nerves? Yeah. Nerves.

He doesn’t get those.

He doesn’t understand why Hinata has to take a toilet break when he’s extremely panicked, why Asahi expresses doubts over things that would go away if they just focused and played to their best, why Yachi and Yamaguchi concoct dastardly scenarios which only make them feel worse. Green in the gills, like fish out of water.

To him it’s simple. There is volleyball and there is Tobio. There is his team, and the opponents. There is all the work he has done to get to this place and all the plays he is confident in. So why should he be nervous? Why should he tremble? Why should a king let his hair go grey over storms that will pass, when his fortress overlooks the entire land, guarded by an army at his whim, by skills that he has honed since childhood?

Tobio is not what he’d call overly-confident. But he knows what he can do and what he can’t do, and really, that’s all he needs to be able to play.

However, the first match trips him up. His world is tilting and misshapen, all the pinpoint accuracy he has drilled into himself falls askew under blaring lights that burn far too bright.

But he is Kageyama Tobio and he knows his team trusts him to sort this out. So he steps back, grows accustomed to his surroundings and does exactly that. They didn’t grant him a crown just for namesake, and he has to utilise the wisdom that comes with it, fixing his worldview bit by bit until it’s like he was never deterred.

They win.

Tobio carries that victory with him all afternoon, stopping by the kiosk to buy a new shirt. You can never have too many setter soul t-shirts after all.

It is there that he runs into Hoshiumi, and Hinata begins acting like his overly-competitive self all over again. He knows the rest of the team will call him a hypocrite for that, but they didn’t see Shouyou compare heights with Hoshiumi on their first meeting like this was some traditional display of ranking, hailing from the land of short people.

Still, Hoshiumi didn’t seem to mind, in fact he was just as, if not more enthusiastic. And when he walks away, satisfied that he is superior in height, Hinata turns and gives Tobio a look.

_The look._

The one where a storm is brewing behind the auburn gates of his eyes, flickering, lighting up something Tobio doesn’t fully understand. He looks like they’ve just taken a game that went into full-sets, like they’re about to fucking win nationals, and the next step is to keep playing.

He looks like that day they first met back in middle school, when, despite the odds, Hinata chased every ball like it was the last and spoke words that chill Tobio’s spine to this very day: _‘we’ve not lost yet.’_

Tobio is familiar with that look. What he doesn’t seem to recognise is why the hell Shouyou has it on his face right now.

He’s only left more confused by what he utters next, lips giving way to a splitting grin: “I’m glad we came here.”

He gives no context, but that doesn’t exactly surprise Tobio. Shouyou often leaves him in the dust, chasing after an answer until it slaps him in the face like a well-times hurricane. Doesn’t mean he likes feeling like this. Doesn’t mean he won’t pester Hinata and call him a dumbass in hopes that he explains.

Not that he will give any answers that aren’t just noises instead of real words.

Tobio doesn’t let it bother him though; he’s still riding the wave of a win and the electric feeling of being able to keep playing.

But the sweet taste of victory is dulled quickly by one glance at the tournament brackets. A metallic taste fills Tobio’s mouth as he steps away, and it lingers all the way back to the hotel, festers on his tongue all through the night.

Inarizaki. Miya Atsumu. They’re playing them next.

The thought makes his stomach do flips, but he knows it isn’t nerves. It can’t be. Kageyama Tobio doesn’t get nerves.

Instead of dwelling on the thought until he is reduced to nothing more than a madman, Tobio forces himself to sleep, cradling saccharine dreams of winning and trying to quell the sparks that kickstart his mind at the thought of beating Miya Atsumu.

He sleeps well, despite the feeling that his body is running on overdrive.

***

The game against Inarizaki has barely begun when Tobio feels it.

He feels the change before it even takes place. He knows this feeling. He recognises the stiffness in the air, the way it is crackling, begging to be set alight, the way it heaves into his lungs without warning, accompanied by the slamming of shoes on the court, thudding like drums performing the death march.

The cavalry has arrived, and Miya Osamu is charging, but he is not the mastermind of this attack. He is the cannon that somebody else is igniting. And Tobio can see it, see it so _painstakingly_ crystal clear that the world has halted in slow motion.

Tobio can see the fire burning in Atsumu’s palms, flickering with an intensity akin to that of a whip cracking against his poised fingers. The flames are everywhere, in his bronze eyes, in the sweat trickling down his face, left on the ground where he plants his feet, trainers squeaking under the weight of a jump yet to come. And the sky, the stadium lights, they are dull when compared to the way Atsumu shines, to the way he burns with the intensity of a thousand stars.

At this moment Tobio knows, he knows in his very _bones_ , that Miya Atsumu will burn him, will set this court alight and leave Tobio's kingdom in ashes. The hunger in his eyes speaks for itself; it will consume Tobio's talents, scorch through every wall between them until nothing remains.

It is _his_ stratagem, a glorious array of _his_ ingenuity, of everything that makes him _Miya Atsumu_. Commander of his fleet, leader of this initiative, king in his own right.

A tremulous breath, a sharp inhale of anticipation as Tobio watches, wide-eyed, wondering if he will do it. _Will he really pull this off?_

Fire is contagious, and Tobio's abdomen feels soaked in kerosene, as Atsumu winds his hands to strike the match. _Strike me_ , Tobio finds himself thinking, finds himself yearning for it. It would be catastrophic for his team, but he wants to know, even if that means burning alive.

Unadulterated fear. It swishes in his stomach as the ball zips through the air, encased in sparks, Atsumu's soul on display — burning, blazing, _beautiful_. Right into the hands of his brother who carries out his commands with a simple strike, battering through Karasuno's defences.

The explosion lands with a boom that ripples through Tobio's skin, shards of its debris striking him somewhere deep within his chest. And the alarm catches fire at the sight of Atsumu's ravening smirk. He is as insatiable as the fuel that runs through his veins, as untamed, as dauntless, as intriguing.

Perhaps more. Perhaps he is a deity, a sun god, Apollo himself, flaxen locks bleeding into a halo of sunlight where his crown should sit. Whatever he is, _whoever_ he is, Tobio decides that he is a real contender.

Perhaps the greatest contender to ever challenge his kingdom.

Tobio thinks fire destroys, enflames all that it kisses with its recreant lips, strikes dread into even the most guarded of hearts. And there is truth to that; it is reflected in the faces of his entire team, especially those of his coaches, pale and shocked. But despite it all, there's a question he knows he shouldn't ask sitting right on the tip of his tongue. He tests its weight against the barriers that are his teeth, his eyes meeting Atsumu's bright ones.

He wants to ask, wants to know: _who are you, Miya Atsumu? Are you like me? Do you understand?_

Other setters have kept him an arms length away, they call his skills ‘genius’, something to be born with and not learned. But here is Atsumu, defiant, thinking nothing of it as he replicates the very thing that separated Tobio from everyone else.

It’s terrifying. It’s frustrating. It’s amazing.

There is something like admiration emanating from the burns Atsumu has singed into him, maybe it's an odd feeling to want to cross the net and question the opposition. Maybe it is. Maybe Tobio feels that way regardless, dazed by the fumes of smoke now clouding his vulnerable lungs, intoxicating him.

Tobio has felt admiration before, for every setter. For Oikawa, it was a smouldering flame set alight by his young heart, now existing as a few memorable burns that he cherishes. Because there is still a chance to be as great as him. He still wants to be someone Oikawa acknowledges.

For Sugawara, his admiration exists as a few homely flickers, like the comforting crackles of a fireplace on a snowy winter's night. Akaashi and Kenma are their own form of support, unique and commendable, trusted and held close to his heart — warm like the summer sun.

But Atsumu is a raging bonfire, a volcano that has suddenly erupted, and there is beauty in his destruction, there is skill in his coordinated attacks. He does not call him genius and reject him, nor does he hold him on a pedestal out of reach. No, Miya Atsumu is fire and impatience, a childlike adoration for volleyball, an unquenchable desire to be better. He calls Tobio a goody-two-shoes and steals the quick that he worked so hard on. The quick that Tobio crafted with Hinata, stolen in front of his very eyes; not viewed as something impossible, or something detestable.

Not genius; just volleyball.

Atsumu is someone who puts them on equal ground. He isn't all that different, Tobio decides as the world around him gives into a hopeless bow to the older setter’s majesty. He hates it, but god does he love it.

Fire burns, but fire is life; it is what provides light to our little planet, insignificant as it is.

Miya Atsumu fights, with his claws and his teeth, he sends his soldiers forth with sets that are weapons of their own.

He is destruction.

But he is life too, life breathed into Tobio through the flames lapping at his awe-struck figure.

The copy of the quick right off the fly like that is a challenge, a brazen remark that screams _‘I can do anything you can do’._ A declaration that their kingdoms are at war and they will fight to their bones and teeth. That there will be hellfire raining from the sky, melting down the towers of gold that Karasuno is made of.

But Tobio can’t help the bubbling excitement rising from the ashes all around him, because this is it.

There is someone just like him.

Tobio is understood. Understood in a different way to his team, to being crowned by Hinata, now he is understood by the opposition, by a _setter_ or at least there is a chance that he will be, someday.

He knows at this very moment, that no matter where he goes, now or in the future, there will be an emperor of equal stateliness, of equal skill and sovereignty, waiting across the net, across the borders of their kingdoms. Always ready to fight. Always ready to set him alight.

To make him feel alive.

The match progresses and Tobio fights harder, because Atsumu will not back down. None of Inarizaki will. But Tobio promised him that there would be no scrubs to play against and he intends to keep that promise.

Then Atsumu floors him yet again. This time with less violence, without sending forth one of his hitters, his loyal subjects that he does not hesitate to walk amongst, as if they were equals. This time Atsumu bends himself backwards, ignites himself with a sort of dedication that can only leave Tobio watching on as he sets with all ten fingers, like it is nothing under the pressure of his entire burning body held up by his thighs. Like a setter through and through.

Tobio can’t see himself right now, but he has a feeling that his lips have quirked up into a feral grin. Deep within his body, he can feel his every organ flare up, enkindled by passion that is not his, but resonates so strongly that it may as well be.

He gets it now. He understands what Hinata meant.

“Hey. Hinata.” Tobio is surprised that his lips managed to part and give way to his strained voice, “I’m glad I came here too.”

_I’m glad I could play against a setter like Atsumu._

If Kageyama is king, with flowing robes and a glorious crown, Atsumu is the same, a foriegn monarch here to mark his place even without a diadem to show off.

And if Atsumu is fire, Kageyama is a phoenix, brought back to life by the aftermath of the wildfire that is his plays.

Reborn by their battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y’all.
> 
> a lot of this chapter has been recycled from a drabble that i wrote when to the top two started and the twins copied the freak quick, and i felt like it fit in the context of this fic so here it is. finally put to use!
> 
> hope y’all enjoyed reading! see ya next chapter <3


	3. for rome, can also fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atsumu wants to break Tobio into pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you live in a society, i live in a world where we pretend inarizaki could’ve won

Stadium lights bleed alabaster all over the wizened earth beneath Atsumu’s feet, the court ravaged by a fearsome war, a clash between provinces on opposing sides of Japan.

East vs West.

Miyagi vs Hyogo.

Kageyama Tobio vs Miya Atsumu.

Now, at this moment, in Tokyo, at nationals, Atsumu wipes away sweat with the back of his hand, tributaries of his exertion, trickles of crushed diamonds that glisten and prick his delicate skin. The sight of the net between Inarizaki and the victors steals all emotions from him until he is void of everything.

_What happened?_

Void of everything but that one thought.

_What happened to Tobio?_

Void of everything but the stinging of air forcing its way down his throat, invading his lungs where it is both needed yet unwelcome. Breathing in the next moment feels like accepting defeat, accepting that Karasuno had bested them; that their good was just not fucking good enough.

But who needs memories, eh?

The banner stretches from stand to stand, the backdrop of Atsumu's fall, of a quick set halted by hands that move just as swift as his and his twin, by Kageyama Tobio and Hinata Shouyou.

The glorious Roman Empire, built by their hands, the foundation for world domination, for winning nationals; they set the earth on fire, smoke billowing from the pillars of marble, each one carving out another member of Inarizaki's volleyball team, cracked and breaking. All their effort, everything they had done in this match thrown into the fucking river, the riches that Atsumu had stolen from a king's treasury, snatched from Tobio’s palms, gone within an instant. Lost in a sea of blue, never to be his again.

Sure, he can use that quick all he wants in the future, but _right now_? Right now it is the double-edged sword that has finally cut him, the metaphorical arrow in the eye as he loses to a boy-king, someone who he thought would crumble in the heat of battle.

But Tobio’s no goody-goody, no pushover—not anymore.

He is a mighty emperor, yet still rough around the edges, a few bare threads of soul remain, and Atsumu wants to pull and twirl them around his fingers so he can unravel this seemingly-unshakeable king before him. But he knows Tobio won’t let him get that close, or maybe he will, god maybe, maybe, _maybe._ It’s all up in the air, all a big fucking maybe, because Tobio, as Atsumu has learned the hard way, is not so black and white.

He evolves, like the princes before him; he changes tactics, commands armies, cuts off the men that do not satisfy, forces them to greater heights and god. _God_ , is it terrifying to watch.

Terrifying and exhilarating.

Kageyama Tobio is not Caesar; his team trusts him too greatly. They spoil him, pamper him like royalty and tremble under his demanding sets. With one stretch of his finger, one push from his palms, his soldiers spring forth like his sets are royal decrees. They would never strike him down.

But there is no doubt that Karasuno is Rome, an empire stretching across the land, made from the pieces of sovereignties they had already invaded—the teams in Miyagi, Shiratorizawa, Tsubakihara Academy, and now, Inarizaki.

They weren’t built in one day, and Atsumu could not tear them apart in one blow. Not even with Osamu by his side. It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue—loss, what a bastard. If loss were a person, Atsumu would pummel him to the ground the first chance he gets.

But loss is a feeling; loss is just a smidge more potent than an all-encompassing now. And for a brief moment, time feels irrelevant, the past and memories blend with the steps Atsumu is taking towards the net, clouding his heavy head. Loss is a beast, untamable, burning. Loss is the handing over of his kingdom, the crossing of his team’s name on the tournament brackets, the sight of a fellow setter, staring at him with a wreath of golden victory settled on his raven locks.

Atsumu moves along the net shaking hands, yet all the while his brain is occupied somewhere in the past, separated from the big flashing neon sign of now fucking what? Now what will you do, Miya Atsumu? Because questions like that can be answered everyday, but concepts like that of _Kageyama Tobio_ —he sucks in a breath as Tobio stands across him, hand outstretched, face unreadable, a smug monarch climbing over the ruins of Inarizaki’s kingdom to claw his way to the top—concepts like that are fleeting, and they occupy more space in Atsumu’s mind by the second.

“Good game, Miya-san.”

Atsumu doesn’t know if he is making it up, but he swears there is amusement in his eyes; he swears on all things holy and scared, that Kageyama Tobio is taunting him.

For a brief second he feels like a jester invited to a king’s court, here to dance at his command until his knees give out, but a demeaning thought like that burns up at the memory of Tobio’s setter dump, of a tilted head and hungry eyes and a rapacious smirk that just screamed _‘I win’_.

Atsumu wants to scowl, honest to god, he wants to frown until his face permanently creases but he can’t. It’s like his body won’t listen, and his mouth has a will of its own, coiling into a leer filled to the brim with demur.

Tobio’s won—this time. He gets to parade around in velvet vanity and silken superiority—this time. He’ll shake Tobio’s hand and accept defeat—this time.

This time, this time, _this time_.

He meets Tobio’s palms under the net and swears there’s a jolt of electricity in the younger setter’s touch. Then he tilts his head, takes a moment to look at him, to really examine his newest rival. The anthracite of his hair falls down his forehead in streams, damp and sticking to reddened face, halcyon highlights of his skin aglow with aurelian triumph.

Something about this moment, of Tobio standing there, cerulean eyes piercing through Atsumu like he is nothing but a stepping stone, makes the older setter’s body catch alight. His erratic heart, rattling around his chest, demanding strife and conflict and Kageyama Tobio’s downfall—it’s almost too much yet not enough. He has wanted to wipe that cocksure smirk off Tobio’s face since his setter dump; he wants to tear him apart bit by bit, slowly, wants to bring Rome to its knees, wants to be the barbarians that tore down an empire with their bare hands.

“Yeah.” Atsumu squeezes Tobio’s hand out of nothing but pettiness.

Osamu always did say he was a sore loser. Atsumu doesn’t care; winning is everything, winning is how he gets to keep playing, gets to discard the past for now.

Tobio doesn’t seem particularly affected by the pressure Atsumu tried to apply, staring back at him with that same unperturbed frown. That only adds kindling to the fire blazing in Atsumu’s chest; does Tobio even know that he’s pressing all his buttons at once? Does he enjoy getting Atsumu this worked up?

“I’ll see ya’ later, Tobio-kun.” He lets go of the younger setter’s hand before he says something stupid, and instead, shifts his eyes to his partner.

That kid has Tobio wrapped around his finger, he’s dangerous, he’s crazy—a real hungry spiker. Atsumu wants to be pushed like that; wants to make him dance to his tune, wants to bamboozle blockers as he commands this knight that even Tobio cannot bend to his will.

So, Atsumu points at him, at Shouyou, and makes a promise, “One day, I’ll set for ya.”

He knows Shouyou will bloom into a monster; like Osamu said, when you take a bite of something it only makes you hungrier. And Hinata’s love for volleyball is all consuming; he wonders what it’s like to get caught up in his whirlwind.

Shrimpy looks taken aback; Tobio just looks on blankly. Not even the hint of interest on his face, let alone annoyance. Is he made of steel, of marble, unfeeling and royal?

No. No, he’s not. Atsumu has seen the way those bluebell eyes flicker with the flame of competition, has seen the goody-two-shoes disappear right before his eyes as a sage king takes over. He knows that he has lost to Tobio, but Atsumu’s a sore fucking loser, and he won’t let this go to Tobio’s head.

“After I crush y’all next year.” He spits out venom, eyes back on Tobio, hoping to burn holes in his chest, to make him weak in the knees, to shove him off the cliff edge. To make him remember, that Miya Atsumu will always be one step ahead of him, always chasing the future, always thinking about what he’s going to do next.

So Tobio may wear the crown now, but Atsumu will snatch it back; he will make sure Tobio never forgets that they’re side by side, neck and neck, running towards the finishing line.

***

Karasuno loses two matches later. Atsumu watches.

He watches as Hinata flies too close to the sun and ends up hurtling back down to earth to join the mortals who reside there. He watches as Karasuno begins to fumble around him, dazed by the events, by his insistence and his tears. He watches Hoshiumi make a promise from across the net, a promise that he will wait for Shouyou. He watches Tobio’s back, doesn’t get to see his face nor hear his voice.

And he wonders—he doesn’t know why but he does because there’s something so fucking alluring about Tobio and it pisses him off—he wonders what he feels. He wonders if his voice shakes, if that perfect facade finally cracks, if a part of him feels broken.

He wonders to no avail, watching as the city of Rome scorches at the hands of barbarians, finally meeting its fated end—ruins and shambles of what could have been. For Rome too, can fall.

Atsumu doesn’t linger to see Kageyama bowing to another team’s might; he wants to wait until next year to savour that sight. He doesn’t know why he’s so confident that they’ll face each other again, perhaps most people would assume Karasuno’s wings have been cut off for good, but Atsumu isn’t most people. Kageyama Tobio isn’t most people.

They will rise again, they will fight again—like phoenixes taking flight.

And next time, Atsumu will make sure it is Kageyama Tobio on his knees, with Atsumu’s sword pressed to his throat—a fitting fall for a king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyoooo quick update, idk sometimes writing atsumu’s pov comes easy to me and other times not so much, this was a not so much kinda moment. idk it’s hard to try to understand him completely at all times.
> 
> but yes i’m cooking up the rivalry, because what’s a good ship without some serious tension.
> 
> thank you for reading! see y’all next chapter for a return to tobio-pov and training camp take two!


	4. a royal gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kageyama Tobio has not been kissed before, not until Miya Atsumu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just two rivals kissing.

Faces new and old, line themselves up at the national training camp that year.

Tobio isn’t all that interested in any of them; sure, competition is competition, but there’s no need for him to linger around boys that rub him the wrong way. He is certain that they are quite elite people—they must have the skill to be here—but they are also people he doesn't know. They are unfamiliar carvings imposing on a place he had thought he'd memorised.

It's frustrating trying to learn new names so he doesn't; he keeps his distance, opting to stick around those that he is familiar with—stone men chiselled into permanent existence, permanent residence in his memories.

One statue in particular, demands his attention like no other, just like the last time he was here. A king, carved out of marble, the factor that decides win and loss for his team, situated on a golden chessboard that Tobio cannot help but want to play a match on—Miya Atsumu.

Atsumu is familiar, magnetic, and Tobio feels like he is following him like a lost fucking puppy. He also feels like the older setter is enjoying stringing him along like Tobio’s his little puppet, hazel eyes glinting with the same heat he brings prior to a match. Kageyama hates it, but he doesn’t know anyone else enough to sit with, and he doesn’t want to be alone, so Miya Atsumu is his only option.

Yet, all the while, with every lingering look, with every upturned smirk, with the short-lived, perhaps accidental, dragging of Atsumu’s fingers across the fabric of Tobio’s shirt, and the electricity crackling between them no matter what side of the court they’re on, Tobio can’t help but want to pull him aside and ask him. Ask him what the hell he wants; inform him that he won’t lose whatever game Atsumu is trying to play with him.

The chance to do so doesn’t come to him until the very last day of camp, the evening that shall bring about a morning in which each kingdom will take back its prince, now armed with new knowledge of their enemies.

The last game Tobio plays at camp ends with him and Atsumu across the net—a pale shadow of battles to come, of promises made on holy ground and pawns moving around at the command of their rulers.

And once all the artillery is stashed away, and all the soldiers are gone, two monarchs remain in this haven of volleyball, alone, playing a game together like little children, as though they will not be at each other’s throats the second any of this becomes real—at nationals, that is.

The night has grown, inky arms stretching over the sky that is visible from the gymnasium windows, and Tobio finally decides it's time to go to bed, or else the coaches will give them a stern talking to.

And then it’s just Atsumu and him in the equipment cupboard; just Tobio trying to survive under that hungry, seemingly-pissed-off gaze, pinpointed on him like there’s no tomorrow.

“Where the fuck were ya’ at Inter-High?”

Atsumu doesn’t ask.

He demands.

He demands without towering over Tobio or forcing physical dominance. He demands with the tilt of his head, a shift of his crown, the narrowing of his eyes, a raised hand, the one that sends forth swathes of his soldiers.

He points directly at Tobio’s chest, where his heart lies in between the bars of his ribs, imprisoned and rattling like the bones of sinners beyond the grave.

“We...We lost to Dateko.” It’s a simple answer; it’s the truth. Atsumu isn’t pleased.

“I can’t beatcha if yer not fuckin’ there...Ya’ do remember my promise, right?” Atsumu doesn’t lean against the wall next to Tobio even when the younger boy shifts over for him. Instead, he stands in front of him, hands stuffed in his pockets as he maintains eye contact, adamant if anything.

“Of course.” Tobio pauses, looking up at Atsumu, not one to shy away from a challenge, “And I’m going to make sure you don’t fulfill it.”

There’s a laugh from the older setter that may as well be a cackle, echoing in the room, sinking into Tobio’s skin and converting into sparks of cold that overtake every bone that makes up his spine. And his _hands_ —Tobio feels his breath shake a little but he is confused; why is he breathless? He hasn’t done anything exerting in the last ten minutes—Atsumu’s hands first find the wall, caging him in like he is his personal trophy, but then they shift, fisting into his collar and bunching up Tobio’s shirt so the lines of his hipbone, jutting out from his shorts, are revealed.

Atsumu’s mouth is doing that thing. That god-awful thing that makes Tobio’s stomach go tight; his eyes are carrying twin flames, ablaze like that moment he stole the quick. Tobio’s skin feels cold with kerosene, not yet healed from the last time Atsumu became a walking, talking, fighting firestorm. And this time he is close enough to touch, close enough to leave third-degree burns. It feels like they are on the court, at war again, no longer separated by the mesh of barbed wire they call a net. They’re in the space between two opposing sides, meeting up in no man’s land where any action can be fatal. It’s stupid to linger in between two warring fractions, but Atsumu doesn’t seem to want to let go, and Tobio isn’t about to let him have the satisfaction of being the last man standing.

“Mighty words from a guy who couldn’t make it to Inter-High.” Atsumu sneers, voice laced with all the things that rile Tobio up, a few splutters of molten rock, magma and lava pouring itself all over Tobio’s exposed hips, defined lines of his stomach sinking in and out in shaky breaths that invite in agitation.

The younger boy tries to struggle, lips snapping into that glare and pout combo that he just can’t help, and he grits his teeth, annoyance spilling over the edge of the goblet, as his tense voice begins syllables of pique that are swiftly stifled under the press of Atsumu’s mouth to his mouth, quite effectively shutting him up.

Tobio’s eyes widen at the abrupt contact of chapped lips, letting out a hiss of pain at the clanking of teeth at this awkward angle. But Atsumu doesn’t seem to mind, pressing against him with a fiery intent, and then pulling back just as suddenly as he leaned in.

Tobio’s chest heaves, jaw slack at what just happened. Atsumu doesn’t say anything, which is so out of character that Tobio thinks he must be fucking with him; that little glint of mischeif sure makes it seem that way.

“What the _fuck_ was that for?” His voice breaks, higher and more breathless than he intended it to be.

Tobio hasn’t been kissed before—not until now; not until him.

He’s almost seventeen but things like that never interested him, not enough to act out anyway.

Of course he has _thought_ about kissing people before—boys in particular—boys like Oikawa Tooru in middle school and Kunimi Akira before things between them went to shit and Hinata Shouyou early in their first year.

But he’s never acted on it, least of all in a fucking equipment room at a fucking nation youth training camp with a guy who he has vowed to crush with his own two hands.

And yet, something about it is exhilarating; something about it gets Tobio to fixate on those fleeting thoughts about boys. Pretty boys who Da Vinci would have yearned to paint. Loud boys who can compel a whole room with their presence. Boys with a permanent smirk and gorgeous, terra-cotta eyes. Boys with bleached hair and a parted fringe and an undercut that Tobio oh so _desperately_ wants to run a hand through—to pull, tug, intertwine his fingers with.

Just as a way to win whatever game they’re playing, whatever new competition Atsumu has started between them.

“I don’t know,” Atsumu says, but the fact that he practically sings his response suggests otherwise, and he stands there, not letting go. Tobio doesn’t attempt to move, holding eye contact so he doesn’t lose, “But I win.”

“Win _what_?”

“This.” He shrugs his shoulders like what they’re doing is supposed to be obvious.

Tobio has half a mind to knee Atsumu in his crotch and leave him on the ground to suffer, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s too busy staring at this boy. A boy who does not ask before he takes and takes far more than he should. A boy that Tobio lets steal from him, despite the wartime declaration hanging in between them. A boy that has just announced victory in a tucked away corner of the gymnasium, greedily latching onto the pot of gold meant for no one’s hands to hold, least of Miya Atsumu.

Tobio won’t let him get away with this; he won’t ever lose to him, not now—not so quickly.

It feels like they have just played a match, feels like they’ve both taken a set and that kiss is match point. It makes his blood rush, so Tobio scrunches his brows, concocting a stratagem to turn the tides in his favour, to trip up a monarch who got too big for his boots. Emperor Caligula attempted to wage war on the sea; Tobio will turn the entire ocean against him with his lips.

Tobio is taller than he was at the last training camp, but Atsumu is still the larger out of the two of them, a little broader too. After all, he is a whole year older than him, so even though it bruises his ego to do so, Tobio tilts his head up to meet Atsumu’s lips. The older setter’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and it amuses Kageyama to know that even Miya Atsumu is not unshakable, but the notion only lasts in the fleeting second that Atsumu takes to stop faltering.

And then Tobio’s back is flush against the wall again, mouth being seared by another’s touch, hot and burning as Atsumu moves at his own pace, grip on Tobio’s track jacket loosening as his fingers stray. One hand dips to Tobio’s exposed hip, digging into the skin hard enough to bruise, making Tobio let out a little wince, strained gasp swallowed by an invading tongue.

This is Atsumu’s opening gambit, his set of moves to bring Tobio to his knees. A heavy kiss that chars every inch of Tobio’s mouth, his thumb tracing the bobbing of Tobio’s adam's apple, an aphrodisia that could kill, bit into Tobio’s bottom lip. Check.

Tobio knows he has to make a move or else it’ll be checkmate already, so he uses his rook, traces a path up Atsumu’s spine, eventually finding his hair and letting his fingers intertwine with it, pulling sharply, eliciting a half-broken noise from the older boy. Something low and caught in his throat; a sign of a good move. Check.

That is how they play this game, swapping blow for blow, move for move, every little trace of their fingers and every short, fiery kiss, a calculated move to make the other accept defeat. Atsumu discards languid kisses for ones that drag out his name from Tobio’s lips, voice rough as he hands over another piece of his team, rooks and pawns and bishops piling up. Tobio hates how he is turning into putty in Atsumu’s hands, opting to dip his hands under his shirt, blunt nails loitering on skin that feels like it should be off limits. Atsumu’s stomach is well defined, sinews of muscles shifting under Tobio’s fingertips as they trail up, stealing another chess piece through the gasps Atsumu breathes into his mouth.

They eventually stop, left with aching jaws and swollen lips and a stalemate that makes Tobio’s stomach stir with annoyance, and lingering remnants of something sweet, something hot and burning.

Atsumu sighs, breathing heavy as his chest heaves up and down, eyes flickering up from Tobio’s lips to meet his gaze. That easy smirk is back, Tobio's stomach does a flip. He absolutely despises that smirk and all the ways it can contort his insides.

“Ya’ better be there next time,” Atsumu grits his teeth, “Ya’ better be there so I can beatcha.”

And then he turns on his heels and leaves Tobio alone in the equipment cupboard, gently touching his lips, now branded with promises old and new, giving way to a hushed response of ‘ _I will be’_ lost to the still air around him.

Atsumu and him are built of exchanged promises and kisses meant to hurt, meant to tear each other apart. Atsumu and him are built to fight, to meet at nationals and play a rematch, so he holds onto all the pieces of the older setter that he has stolen, taking them all the way back to Miyagi as little memories. Little spurs of adrenaline. Little boosts for when he is training, incentives to work even harder—to see that smirk finally fall from Atsumu’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i miss haikyuu already. . .
> 
> i dont really write kisses tbh, i like writing pining more, but uh i tried?
> 
> atskg have so much tension it’s frustrating like can y’all figure yourselves out!!
> 
> thank you for reading! i actually really enjoy writing this fic so i hope y’all enjoy reading it.
> 
> see ya’ next chapter!! ily!
> 
> twt: kaikxge.


End file.
